


At Second Sight

by Lady_Therion



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Elriel, F/M, Post-ACOWAR
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:45:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: Elain accidentally turns Azriel into a dragon.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops.

Amren often kept a running list of things she didn’t like—not because she was petty, but because she was practical. At the top of this list were guests and surprises. So when she returned to her apartment with the hope of finding solitude, she was less than enthused to find a clearly distressed Elain instead.  

A clearly distressed Elain with a small dragon coiled in her lap.

“I can explain.”

Amren pursed her lips.

“Not until I’ve had my wine.”

Then she tossed aside her coat as well as whatever expectations she had for a quiet evening.

“I’m sorry for troubling you. I just didn’t know where else I could—”

Amren held up a hand as she poured herself a glass of scarlet red, then poured another for the doe-eyed intruder sitting in the middle of her living room. Elain took the offered glass with about as much eagerness as a child receiving a tonic for sickness, but she took it nonetheless.

Amren took one long gulp before assuming her place in a wingback chair, crossing her legs as she leveled her most discerning gaze. To her credit, Elain didn’t squirm. But perhaps that had more to do with the dark scaly beast, no bigger than a newborn pup, curling its tail around Elain’s wrist as if in reassurance.

“All right, little Seer. From the beginning.”

Elain swallowed. “It...it all started with a book.”

“Not just _any_ book, I imagine.”

Elain reddened. “No. Yes. I mean...I was looking for a spellbook. At the House of Wind. Something to help me understand my Sight better.”

Amren’s gaze softened. None of them escaped from the aftermath of Hybern’s war unscathed, but at least Elain had finally emerged from her dreamlike stupor to face her new future. She had such difficulty shedding the mantle of her old life—and no wonder. She had been happy. Or at least, she thought she was.

“So I take it you found a spellbook,” said Amren. “And rather than consult your sisters or myself, you decided to try your hand at a bit of magick and wound up summoning a new pet instead?”  

The beast growled at her as though it understood—and perhaps it did. Dragons could not be so easily domesticated like their wyvern cousins. This one, however small, would have only submitted to Elain because it _chose_ to.

“In a manner of speaking,” Elain went on, trying to calm the wretched fiend by stroking its spindly horns.

Oddly enough, the creature seemed to...shirk at her touch, as though it was _embarrassed_ at being coddled so. Amren blinked. Surely, the effects of her wine wouldn’t overcome her so quickly? Then again, she still had no idea what the limitations of her new body were.

“Stop talking in circles, girl,” said Amren. “It’s late and I grow weary.”

Elain bit her lip, as though it pained her to give voice to her folly. “I wasn’t alone when I decided to try the spell. Azriel was with me.”

“Was he?” Amren cast a glance at the long shadows about her. “And where is our notorious spymaster now?”

Elain bit her lip again. Then she gathered the little beast in her arms as gently as she could before proffering it to her. “This is...he’s right here.”

The sound of Amren’s wine glass rolling across the floor was the only thing that penetrated the ensuing silence.

Then the shadowsinger did everything in his power to scowl at her—actually _scowl_ at her—as if to say, “Don’t you dare…”

Amren dared anyway.

* * *

It was a while before Amren stopped cackling—close to an hour, in fact. Enough time for Elain to finish her own wine and mop of the remains of Amren’s. Enough time to reflect, once again, on what an awful, _awful_ mess she made.

She hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. Though she supposed her that intentions didn’t matter. Good lord, it was as though she were four years old again and was caught eating all the sweets in cook’s kitchen. Except this was obviously a thousand times worse. And poor Azriel! He had always been so kind to her, so gentle, so brave.

And how did she repay him? With her own stupidity and selfishness.

She glanced at the other end of Amren’s couch where Azriel had perched on one of its arms. He was testing the weight of his wings, stretching the left one and then the right. It must be so disorienting—this new body of his. Her heart sank as he began to flap them both, barely able to lift himself a few inches before tumbling back down. She resisted the urge to set him aright, as it would probably only embarrass him further.

 _What have I done?_  

“There’s no need for hysterics,” said Amren, eyes scanning through the spellbook that Elain had found. “The shadowsinger is whole and hale. He can brood in this body with just as much gusto as he did in his last one.”

Azriel tittered.

“Oh shut up.”

Elain wrung her hands. “Can it be reversed?”

She couldn’t bear the thought of dooming Azriel to live the rest of his life in a form he didn’t choose. Not when she knew, firsthand, how terrible a burden that could be. 

Amren huffed. “Well, fortunately this tome is child’s play compared to the Book of Breathings. Though I’m rather impressed you were able to unlock its secrets with barely any training. Tell me girl, how did you come by it?”

A tingle raced up her spine. Azriel peered up at her worriedly.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I felt...it just called to me, somehow.”

“Called to you?”

“Yes.”

“Hn. Like calls to like, I suppose.”

Elain had told her the truth. Most of it anyway. Though she had begun her search for books on other Seers, what she had been hoping to find was...a way to reverse her power. Or nullify it, even. Make the visions in her head go quiet so that she could live in peace.

The things she had Seen during Hybern’s war...where time itself seemed to split into realities as varying as branches on a tree…it was horrible.

So yes, she found the book because it compelled her to. Because when her fingers stroked its spine, it felt as though it _belonged_ to her. And if she closed her eyes, she could have almost sworn it _sung_ to her...

Then Azriel appeared.

_“What are you doing Elain?”_

_She started as he emerged from the shadows. How could an Illyrian so tall be so silent? But he had looked so apologetic that she forgave him instantly. He eyed the book in her hands, then glanced at her face, which she was sure looked more guilty than guileless._

_“What are you doing Elain?” he asked again._

_She had always been such a terrible liar._

_“I imagine that you already know.”_

_“Elain...”_

_“Did my sisters send you? I don’t need a minder,” she said hotly, her words much sharper than usual. She didn’t know why. Azriel had been nothing but compassionate towards her. But she was angry. She was frightened. And she needed answers. “I’m not an invalid. You don’t need to look after me.”_

_He almost looked almost...disappointed_ . _As though she had belittled him in some way._

_“I know you don’t need a minder,” he said. “I came here because I thought you would be lonely. I came because I care for you as a friend.”_

_A sharp sting in her chest._

_“If you care for me as a friend, then you’ll let me do this. Look, I found a spell. Some of it’s written in the Old Tongue, but the translation here could—”_

_Concern flooded his hazel eyes._

_“Elain, you have no idea what kind of magick like that could cost you—and there’s always a cost.”_

_“I know there might be.” Her eyes watered. “Azriel…please try to understand.”_

_There was no judgment in his voice. Only softness. “Understand what?”_

_“It’s just...your world is so beautiful. Your family is so kind. There’s so much joy here. Joy as well as sadness. I can see why Feyre fought so hard for it. I just wish that…. Azriel, this isn’t the path I wanted to walk. But it’s the only path that horrible Cauldron left for me. Does your Court not honor being given a choice? Didn’t your own High Lord let my sister choose?”_

_Was she merely telling him the truth? Or was she being underhanded? Elain didn’t know, her emotions coiling within her like thorns and bramble._

_“Let me help you, Elain.”_

_Just once, she wished she was as brave as Feyre. Or as iron-willed as Nesta. But she could never be like her sisters. Elain was just Elain._

_“If you want to help me, then you have to let me choose.” She took a step forward. “Let me choose, Azriel.”_

_A stalemate followed by a moment of unearthly quiet. Then the page beneath her hand began to….shift. The words alighting one by one, burning with preternatural fire. White fire. Cauldron fire._

_She gasped, backing away._

_“Wha-what…”_

_“Elain!”_

_Light and the smoke filled the room in a maelstrom that could surely could be seen throughout all of Velaris. And Elain was utterly helpless to stop it. Helpless again._

_And when the smoke had cleared, the damage was done._

“You said it was _this_ spell that caused the transformation?”

Elain nodded as Amren scanned the yellowed page from back to front, then back to front again.

“Interesting.”

“Interesting _how_?”

Amren flicked the tip of Elain’s nose in admonishment. “Fretting will get you nowhere, girl. I suggest you and the shadowsinger retire for the night.”

“But the others—”

“The others won’t return from the Court of Nightmares until tomorrow evening. That should give me plenty of time to decipher the spell’s inner-workings. I hope. Until then, here’s a basket.”

Elain furrowed her brow. “What for?”

Amren's grin was positively manic. “Why, for Azriel.”

* * *

“You...you don’t have to ride in the basket.”

Elain sat on the last step of the stoop outside Amren’s apartment. Azriel sat next to her looking positively sullen. Or at least as sullen as he could be, given the circumstances. Strange, how she could still read him even though he was...not himself.

“Can you still winnow?”

It was how they managed to arrive at Amren’s home in the first place. Though the weary gleam in Azriel’s eyes—still hazel—told her he was far too drained now to manage it. She supposed she could always carry him back to the townhouse. But she also couldn't bear adding more insult to injury.

She sighed, growing teary again. “I’m so sorry, Azriel. I should have listened to you. I can’t believe I was so _foolish_ —”  

A quiet huff from Azriel, as though he were chastising her. He was probably right. What good would her self-pity do?

He crept close to her side, leaning against her in a way a cat would. Even now, he was trying to comfort her. In a way, it almost made her feel worse.

“It’s a long way home. You can ride on my shoulder, if you wish.”

Azriel stilled, as though weighing his options. She supposed she was thankful that he chose not to glare at her in the same way he glared at Amren, no matter how much she would have deserved it.

Eventually, Azriel made a soft growl, beckoning her to lean forward until he could cling to her arm. His movements were awkward, clumsy, and not at all like the shadowsinger she had come to know. Eventually he settled onto her shoulder, tucking in his wings as he adjusted his talons—which gripped her firmly, but not sharply.

She smiled, perhaps for the first time that night.

“You know, you’re still very handsome. Even like this.”

It was true. He was. His dark scales gleamed obsidian in the glow of the faelights above the cobblestone streets. And if she looked closely, there were hues of that gorgeous cobalt blue—the color of his Siphons—winding along the spines on his back. But his forelegs and talons...they still bore the leathery burn scars from his childhood. But even so, he was such a beautiful creature. 

He squirmed a bit, looking away from her. She imagined that if he could blush, he would. In fact, he often did, whenever she paid him a compliment. Though she never understood why. Surely, he  must get them so often.

“I’m going to fix this Azriel,” she vowed quietly. “I promise you. I will.”

And though the shadowsinger could not speak, he bowed his head, as though he believed her . It did much to lift her spirits; Azriel had never once lied to her, not even to protect her. The fact that he had once given her Truth Teller spoke volumes about his confidence.

She was an Archeron, after all. And an Archeron almost never broke a vow.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it gets worse.

“If you don’t stop fussing, I _will_ put you in the basket.”

Azriel scowled at her from the center of her bed, huffing and and puffing as much as he was able, the blue and black scales of his chest swelling with each beat of his tiny wings.

It was adorable.

Elain fought the urge to grin. The shadowsinger could have been dwarfed by a house cat, which amused her as much as it alarmed her. Though she had enough sense not to make light of his misfortune—a misfortune she was directly responsible for.

It was a very sobering thought.

At any other time, she would have yielded to her winged friend. But here and now? She would not bend. She may not be as formidable as her sisters, but she inherited enough of their mother’s imperious manner to face down the Spymaster of the Night Court.

Of course, Azriel refused to cease his growling. How else could he argue with her? But as much as Elain wanted to soothe his agitation, she merely raised her brow with a haughtiness that would have made Nesta proud.

“I don’t see what all the squawking is about,” she said. “It’s just for the night. Or until Amren finds a way to break the spell.”

More squawking.

Elain folded her arms.

Azriel, ever the gentleman no matter what form he took, nearly singed her bedsheets in chivalrous protest when she insisted he sleep with her.

Sleep _next_ to her, she clarified, though she could barely hide her blushing as she said so.

Azriel had looked so scandalized at her suggestion that she found it almost charming. As if this centuries-old fae warrior hadn’t done or encountered more shocking or salacious things...

“It will be easier this way,” she continued. “What do you think will happen when the others return? Cassian’s room is right next to yours and he almost never knocks when he wants to see you. Unless you’d _like_ to greet him as you are now?”

A tiny ring of smoke told her what Azriel thought about _that_.

“I’d have to come fetch you in the morning anyway,” she continued. “It would be harder to explain why I’d be poking about in your room. The others would ask questions.”

The shadowsinger gazed at her in that keen and uncanny way that would have made other fae loosen their bowels. But Elain was not afraid. She could never be afraid of the gentle fae warrior who rescued her from a dark abyss. Even when his hazel eyes pierced her with that strange and assessing intensity, she did not feel a shred of apprehension.

Instead, she felt an odd kind of pity.

For all his selflessness, Azriel was always reluctant to accept any kindness or compassion on his behalf. As if he didn’t think he was worthy of such things. The thought of it pained Elain in ways she couldn’t explain.

She sat on the edge of the bed and extended a hand, beckoning him to come closer.

He didn’t. Not at first.

“Azriel,” she said softly. “Please.”

A beat. Then...

He padded over to her, chastened. His tail dragging behind him as though he was regretting his stubbornness. He pushed his snout into her palm, leaning into her by way of apology.

Elain breathed a sigh of relief.

“You can sleep at the foot of the bed,” she said. “I won’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

Azriel sniffed, but obeyed, retreating the farthest corner before circling into a little nest among the covers. The sight of it, as strange it was, softened her heart. She was one of the handful of people in the world who this scarred and lonely warrior seemed to trust—even when she so clearly wronged him.

She would not take that trust for granted. His faith in her was humbling, and she wished she could give voice to the gratitude she felt. But it was late and she was tired...and a new day of challenges was looming ever closer.

So she changed into her nightgown, noting how Azriel had turned his back to her while he slept (no doubt to appeal to her modesty). Then she climbed into bed, mindful of the shadowsinger who watched over her. Only this time, she watched over _him_...counting each of her breaths until sleep finally claimed her.  

* * *

There were many reasons why Elain hated her visions.

They frightened her. They angered her. They were thrust upon her against her will. Worst of all, they imprisoned her in a realm caught between dream and reality. A place where the difference between one and the other was as razor thin as Truth-Teller’s blade.

Her visions were like memories. So vivid and visceral that she could reach out and touch them, _experience_ them in motion. And yet they passed through her like so many grains of sand; a collection of impressions, feelings, and words fighting for some kind of coherency. Images both real and the unreal formed labyrinthine corridors within the chambers of her mind. Corridors where monsters like Hybern always seemed to lie in wait.

It was unbearable.

But tonight, her visions were softer, kinder—like the falling of spring rain.

For once she _saw_ and was unafraid to look.

There was a bed—not her own—and a warm and comforting presence. The sheets were tangled around her legs in a casual disarray. Her bare skin was cooled by the breeze seeping through an open window. And there was someone in her arms. A man. A male.

It was like watching herself and yet not. A passive viewer in an unfolding scene. Everything was hazy at the edges, not unlike the oily texture of one of Feyre’s paintings.

The male in her arms was still as she stroked his bare back. Elain held him close, murmuring sweetly into his ear. Then the dull blue light of dawn filled the room and filled her heart. _And_ _oh_. She hadn’t realized until then...just how empty her heart had been.

Then the male, bared to the waist, reached for her. Buried fingers into her golden-brown hair as he kissed...no devoured...her lips like she was ambrosia. There was shadow and there was light, melding together as easily as love and desire. Then suddenly, roses—like bright drops of blood—grew between the slats of the wooden floors.

The strong contrast threw the passionate scene into a deeper relief, and the words came to her lips with the finality of a prophecy.

_A flower that blooms in light and shadow._

The words reverberated through her like the tolling of a bell. Its echo like a hook that dragged her back to the shores of consciousness. Yet the words were still there when she woke, etched into her heart.

She cracked open a bleary eye and wondered at the fluttering darkness surrounding her.

Then she realized that it was the membrane of a wing.

_Had the spell been broken in the night?_

She shot up in bed, the mattress groaning strangely beneath her. Then her eyes alighted on Azriel and—

“Azriel...oh no.”

* * *

“He’s um...he’s bigger.”

Amren smirked. “In what way?”

“This isn’t a joke,” said Elain, raising her voice as much as she dared. “It’s just...come and see.”

Amren trailed after Elain at a far slower pace than was considered polite. It wasn’t as if she didn’t _care_ about the little seer’s dilemma. She simply relished how much she fretted and blustered over her precious shadowsinger.

A shadowsinger who was _clearly_ much larger than he was the night before.

“I’m sorry Azriel,” said Elain. “I had to bring her.”

It seemed like only a few hours ago that Elain could hold her friend in the palm of her hand. Now he was the size of a young thoroughbred: big enough to ride, like the wyverns that once roamed the wastelands of the old world.

“It’s a good thing our High Lord saw fit to give you such wide and spacious chambers,” said Amren.  

Elain wrung her hands while Azriel glared. His shadows roiled about him, whispering in his ear and winding about his massive spiked tail like tendrils of smoke. How much of his powers remained intact while trapped in this form remained to be seen...

It was a miracle that the only things in the room that bore the brunt of his latest transformation was an upturned dresser, a broken chair, and a sagging bed. All of which would require _far too_ _much_ explanation if discovered. Given the sheer breadth of him, it could have been much worse. But at least it had shown that Azriel still possessed enough self-restraint to not have torn the room apart in rage and confusion. 

Amren wondered what would have happened had this spell inflicted itself on Cassian instead. Though the thought of witnessing how Nesta would take Cassian in hand, bridling him under her uncompromising control, made her smirk all the wider.

“What do we do now?” asked Elain.

“Well, you’ll need a bigger basket.”

“Amren!”

Azriel couldn’t answer her with words, but his growl of irritation said enough. But unlike last night where the sounds he made were barely above a whisper, they were now loud enough to be heard throughout the entire house. As loud as the baying of hounds.   

Fortunately, the rest of the Inner Circle had yet to return from their duties to the Hewn City. Though given the late hour of the morning, Amren knew that time was not on their side.

“Did you find out anything from the book?”

Amren tilted her head, choosing her next words carefully. “Yes and no. It wasn’t a page-turner by any means, but I was able to glean the important things. Some of which I will tell you now and others I will tell you later.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Amren waved the question away like a fly. “The book you discovered was the grimoire of a seer who lived in an age before the seven courts came to be. Here.” She handed Elain a scrap of yellowed paper. “This flower is the key to reversing the spell. Though its like is rare and has not been seen in many years.”

Elain’s eyes widened.

“ _A flower that blooms in light and shadow…_ ”

Now it was Amren’s turn to be curious. “What was that?”

The girl blanched, fooling no one as she stammered that it was nothing. Amren narrowed her eyes but decided to let it be. They had more pressing matters to attend to.

“That flower still grows in the valleys near the Steppes.” And here, Azriel bared his teeth, a tremor running through his folded wings. Not surprisingly, his birthplace was one of his least favorite places to be. “You’ll have to find the flower, crush it into a powder, then have him drink it under the light of the full moon.”

“But the full moon is several days away,” said Elain. “What happens if we don’t find it in time?”

“Well then you’re in for quite a wait until the next one, my dear. And I’m not sure how much longer we can keep the rest of the Inner Circle unaware.”

As if on cue, the door to the townhouse creaked open. The hum of familiar voices followed.

They were home.

Elain cursed with a word that Amren didn’t even know she could use.

“I’ll distract them,” said Amren. “And take this, as well.” She pressed a sapphire-like stone that hung off the end of a long chain into Elain’s palm. “Its glamor will keep you both undetected, even from us. Use it wisely.”

“Thank you, Amren.”

“Feh.” She turned to the shadowsinger. “I’m actually disappointed you don’t wish to stay in this body, little spy. You look like quite the warrior now.”

The look in Azriel’s eyes could have charred meat. Amren laughed.

“Head to the roof,” was all she said, before shutting the door behind her.

* * *

Elain packed what few supplies she could in a leather satchel before throwing on her cloak and a more practical dress. She didn’t know how long she would be gone, and although the prospect of doing something so dangerous made her heart stutter, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement as well. 

 _This was an adventure_ , she thought. An adventure all her own.

Azriel stood on the edge of the balcony, his wings beating as they opened to catch the open air. The air was his element, she remembered.

He was born hearing the song of the wind...and the song of his shadows. 

“Obviously, I’m coming with you,” she had told him. “I made you promise, after all.”

She had expected Azriel to snap at her, as he did with Amren. But no, he only bowed his head as he crouched down, allowing her on climb onto his back. Elain gulped. She had ridden before as a girl...at her family’s estate, her father leading her pony through the park on their grounds.

But this was no pony.

It took a moment to settle herself. The height from his shoulders was dizzying. She wriggled until she could find a comfortable seat, trying to stop the blood from rushing to her face as she did so.

 _Why did this have to be so_ **_awkward?_ **

But if Azriel felt that way, he didn’t show it. In fact, he was patient and steadfast as ever. Then the tendrils of his shadows appeared, securing around her wrists like reins.

When she was little, Nesta used to read her stories about princesses in towers, and the dragons that kept them there. But her dragon was no jailer. No, her dragon was her savior. It was a twist in the narrative that made her smile, and she leaned forward to clasp Amren’s jewel around Azriel’s neck.

It gleamed bright and blue, just like his Siphons.

“Well my friend?” she said, grasping his sides. “Are you ready for an adventure?”

Azriel answered by spreading his beautiful wings as he reared back, running at a leap before taking off in the sky, leaving nothing behind save for the boom of his wings.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adventuring is hard.

“It wasn’t that bad,” said Elain.

The look Azriel gave her said otherwise. If the shadowsinger could speak, he would have replied with something dry and wilting. As things stood, he only huffed loud enough to rustle her hair and thump his spiked tail on the ground.

“Fine,” she admitted. “But we’re both alive and it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.”

Another thump from Azriel’s tail.

Elain sighed as she leaned against him. His large, warm body curled around hers as they huddled beneath a thick strand of trees.

Their journey to the Steppes was filled with fits and starts. In fact, it took Azriel several attempts to gain his bearings. Flying long distances while adjusting to his new and still rapidly changing form was no easy endeavor. Nor was it easy on Elain’s poor stomach. Had Elain still been human, she could not have endured it.

Overall, the ride was turbulent and strenuous, despite the shadowsinger’s best efforts. His magic, or whatever magic he was still able to control, bore the brunt of the high altitudes. A thin shield of cobalt blue light protected Elain from the worst of it. Yet her eyes still watered and her skin grew cold and raw from the strong, unforgiving winds.

Every time Azriel dove or dodged, she would jerk forward in her seat as he scrambled for purchase. Bruises began to appear in places she had long forgotten. Never in her life had she felt so... _ungraceful_. Thank heavens for his shadows. The otherwordly strength of those smoky tendrils were one of the only things keeping her in place.

It was certainly very different from the last time he carried her through the skies. She tried her best, however, to grin through it; urging him on each time he soared or bolted upwards. It would have been exhilarating had she not been terrified of falling to her death. Though she imagined Azriel would sooner meet his end than allow anything of the sort to happen.

_Gods above, how did Feyre ever manage this?_

Needless to say, it was a relief when they finally reached the foothills. A few hours of daylight to spare.

Of course, it started to rain soon after. A veritable downpour from the look of it. The thunder, the darkness, and the gathering fog were a perfect match for their weary moods. If there really _was_ a Mother watching over this world, she must have been cackling at them both.

“I hope it lets up soon,” she said tiredly.

A non-committal grunt.

Elain stared at him. Though she had no way of knowing for sure, she suspected Azriel was more than a little embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Or perhaps her sunny optimism was finally wearing on his patience. Even now, he was avoiding her gaze.

_The grump._

A bolt of lightning stirred her from her reverie.

Elain watched it all from beneath shelter of Azriel’s wing, which he fanned out to keep her from getting wet. She only wished she could extend the same courtesy, and cursed herself for having none of the ingenuity or survival skills her younger sister had.

Perhaps she wasn’t cut out for adventuring after all.

“I’m a poor traveling companion, aren’t I?”

Azriel shifted beneath her. She imagined he was regarding her quizzically. Only this time, _she_ was the one avoiding his gaze.

“It’s silly, don’t you think? That someone like me could help someone like you?”

A curious growl. A question.

A question Elain didn’t know how to answer.

All her life, she had been cosseted and coddled. _Sweet and gentle Elain._ The kindest and most forgiving of her sisters. The softest...the most fragile. What good was any of her charm and benevolence in a world like this? Where danger and violence and malice took forms unheard of in the human realm?

She never realized how naive she was until the Cauldron robbed her of her humanity. How carefree; how thoughtless. She had been sheltered; spoiled. Not once did she ever question it. Not once had she ever thought of herself as burden.

But she _was_ a burden, wasn’t she?

A burden for her sisters. A burden for her would-be husband. And now a burden to Azriel.

_Azriel..._

She swore to him that she would reverse what she had done. But she had no idea, until now, how utterly ridiculous she had sounded. She had none of Feyre’s grit or Nesta’s steel. All she had, all she knew, were inconsequential things. Songs and dances and flowers. Things that were fleeting, brittle, and easily crushed. The very thought of it made her feel small...and miserable.

From beneath the thick membrane of his wing, the rain pattered on. Steam rose from the earth, filling the air with the scent of green, growing things. Night was fast approaching, which meant they would need to find shelter. Her throat bobbed as she thought of the enormity of her task, the immensity of her quest. _What was she doing?_ She had come here on the back of a _dragon_ , fancying herself a heroic maiden. In truth, she was still a girl. Foolish and young and so incredibly naive. The thought filled her panic.

Panic that the shadowsinger seemed to sense.

He leaned forward, bumping his nose against her cheek. She batted him away as he sought her attention, fighting the urge to grin. But it was a very short-lived battle, especially when he nudged her hard enough to make her fall on her side.

“What are you—?”

He did it again when she righted herself, nudging her back until she was pressed—trapped, really—against his flank. Then again and again, making a game of it. It was a side of Azriel she rarely glimpsed: playful and mischievous and so utterly incorrigible. This time, she laughed, laughed so hard her sides ached.

“If only you were small again,” she said. “Then you would only be a tenth as wicked!”

His hazel eyes grew bright with amusement.

Then he did the most wondrous thing.

He lowered his head as if in deference; a courtier’s bow. Then pressed his forehead against hers. His scales were hard and smooth, like sun-warmed stones. Their cobalt sheen glistening even in the dim light. Elain was so surprised that she did not move, did not breathe. Was it instinct that made him reach for her like this?

Or was it something else?

They had never spoken of that moment. That moment where he gave her his prized blade, a blade he had given to no one before her—and no one ever since. She shivered as she thought of that day. A day soaked in blood and burning, where the scent of fear and despair was as thick as the corpses that lay on the field…

It still terrified her, that blade. She could remember piercing that horrid king’s throat with it. The memory of it made her feel numb; cold. As though she were watching someone else pierce his flesh...Elain had no business in that war, but it had swallowed her up anyway. She was collateral; weak and insignificant. A pawn.

But Azriel never saw her that way.

At least, she didn’t think so.

She released her breath in a long exhale. A soft rumble filled her ears and she realized that Azriel was _purring_ of all things. Another grin bloomed across her face as she threw her arms around his neck. Or as much of his neck as she could.

“We’d better find some place to stay for the night,” she breathed.

Azriel could say nothing. He only squirmed in her embrace to muss her hair with his snout—which was already a ghastly mess. The impertinence of it! This time, she did push him away.

“Scoundrel.”

Another indignant huff.

* * *

The rain went on until dawn. Luckily, they found a cave that was spacious enough for them both. It was also mercifully empty. Elain didn’t know what sort of creatures lurked in these ancient woods, but she did not care to find out. The eerie forest noises—hair-raising bumps and the bone-chilling howls—made her ever more grateful that Azriel was with her.

The cave was dry and dusty, but was well protected from the surrounding elements. Which was just as well, since that saved them from making a fire to keep warm. _Not that she would have been able to make one_ , she thought ruefully.

Azriel had spent the night coiled tightly around her, sheltering her under the expanse of his wing. Like a true dragon, he jealously guarded his hoard, with Elain as his treasure. She told herself that this was simply Azriel’s nature. He was protective of everyone.

She had seen for herself the lengths he would go to keep his family safe. It filled her heart with both awe and dread. Awe, because it displayed the kind of valor only sung in ballads. Dread, because she knew he would sacrifice his life without a thought, if it meant ensuring his loved ones came to no harm.

Once more, her thoughts drifted to his scars. Scars that still raked over his great foreclaws, as they did his fingers when he was fae. Or Illyrian, rather. He did not seem to identify as either. There was a darkness in him, she thought. But she was not afraid of it. There was a darkness in her too. The darkness of being caught in between two worlds...the loneliness of belonging to neither; the longing, the blood-deep wish, to belong to _something_.

Or someone.

She reached out and stroked the damaged scales there, wondering at their hardness, like shards of raised, obsidian glass.

Eventually, she untangled herself from his limbs. Then stretched where she stood, trying to unknot the tightness in her muscles. Last night was the second time she had slept next to Azriel—by necessity, rather than intimacy. Her old self would have tittered at the impropriety of it. Her new self...well, her new self thought it would be a shame to lose such a comfort, as strange a comfort as it was.

She didn’t want to think too deeply on this.

Azriel must have been more tired than she was, because he did not stir. He twitched and grunted in his sleep, but did not wake. _Poor Az_ , she thought. The toll of his transformation must have been more exhausting than she thought. And...had he grown a size or two bigger since yesterday?

At this rate, he would tower over the mountain by nightfall.

She rebraided her hair and smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress. She had slept in the same things she wore yesterday. Should she have packed more? Fashion seemed so trivial when it came to adventuring. She yawned, wincing at the unladylike-ness of it. Her throat was dry and burning. _Water_ , she thought. _She should find some water._

Wasn't there a stream nearby? She looked over her shoulder at Azriel’s sleeping form. Then smirked. For all his ferociousness, he really did look like some giant cat, luxuriating in a ball of its own contentment. If only Feyre were here to paint it!

Quietly, she gathered her cloak and satchel. She had seen some rowan berries in the brush on the way in. Perhaps they would make a good breakfast? She could help Azriel catch something more hearty for them later. A fish maybe. Or a rabbit...

She was halfway down the hillock that spilled from the mouth of the cave. The dampness of the cool morning air clung to her skin, making it prickle.

Deeper into the woods, she heard a rustle. The snapping of a twig, as damning as the snapping of bones. She knew they were there even before she turned around. For a moment, she thought of the stories Nesta whispered to her when they were little. Of young girls lost in the woods and the monsters that hungered for their hearts.

“Hello, little girl. What are you doing so deep in the woods?”

They were Illyrian, thought Elain. Like Azriel, except not. She had seen their like in the camps. These two were cruel-faced and leering.

The shorter of the two moved towards her, circling around like a starveling wolf in winter. A deep scar ran over his eye, as though someone—or something—had clawed it out. “A high-born fae. So far from home. You know that this is _our_ territory?”

“This is the High Lord’s territory,” was all she could say, remembering that it was her sister’s husband—her mate—held dominion over all.

“The High Lord isn’t here,” said the taller of the two. His canines gleaming as white as bone. “And our clan does not serve him.” He spat on the ground in disgust.

Elain swallowed.

“I’ll ask you again,” said the scarred one. “What are you doing so deep in the woods? Don’t you know there might be monsters lurking about?”

A roar in the distance. A roar so loud that it condemned. _Death is coming for you_ , the roar seemed to say, like the baying of hellhounds. The two Illyrians drew their swords, standing back to back as they tried to find the source of it.

“You’re right,” she said. “There _is_ a monster in these woods.”

Shadows emerged from all around, dark and terrible. But also beautiful, in their own way.

Despite herself, Elain smiled. “Unfortunately for you, the monster is my friend.”


	4. Chapter Four

In the storybooks, dragons breathed fire. Their infernal might laid kingdoms to waste. Elain remembered pictures from when she was a child: vellum tableaus of ash and sorrow as villagers tried to flee their burning wrath.

In their games, it was Feyre who always fancied herself the gallant knight and Nesta who always chose to be the dragon. Elain would pretend to be the princess. It never occurred to her sisters that she could be anything else.

It never occurred to Elain either.

Azriel was a dragon, but he did not breathe fire. He breathed shadows. Cold and deadly like a blade against the throat. They blotted out the light like ink in water as they coiled around the two Illyrian warriors and caged them in. They stood their ground, but were wide-eyed with fear as Azriel emerged from the copse of trees, towering at his full height.

She had been right. He _had_ grown while they slept.

It should have frightened her too, being this close to such raw, primordial power—power honed to destroy, annihilate. Yet she couldn’t help but feel drawn to it, as one would be drawn to music.

And it _was_ music.

Azriel’s power _sang_ to her; a chorus of strange and discordant voices hovering unseen in the wind. She had heard their song before...on a battlefield where blood and screams and chaos reigned.

“What...what the hell is that?” whispered the scarred one, all trace of arrogant swagger gone.

“The girl is a witch,” hissed his companion. “The demon-beast must be her familiar.”

Elain did not correct them. Still, something about their hateful expressions made her ill. All her life, she had never been looked at like _that_ : like something that needed to be _extinguished_ ; erased from the world.

Azriel, she knew, had been shunned as a child, imprisoned because he was different. How often had he received this look of pure disgust simply for existing? The thought made her stomach roil.

On instinct, she drew close to him, noting how those cobalt scales flickered and dimmed and pulsed against the obsidian ones. He had no need for that terrifying killing power. He could crush the two Illyrians with a thought.

That didn’t sit well with her.

Azriel crouched low, flaring his wings to their full span before folding one of them in to shelter her. No, not shelter her. Blind her. The dark, leathery folds closed in on her like a screen. He didn’t want her to see…

Surely, he wasn’t thinking of...of killing them?

But would the Illyrians hesitate to gut them on the spot? Or worse? Most likely not. They were a war-mongering race that had been trained from the cradle to strike and slay and ask questions later. Both Azriel and Cassian had told her thus, and still they remained loyal to their people. Or at least, the General-Commander had. The Spymaster, however...

Something about the flat dead-eyed look in his hazel gaze filled her with dread. Unlike his brothers, Azriel’s anger came from somewhere sunless. A frozen winter hellscape where fury did not spark and peter out. His fury was like a glacier, insurmountable and enduring. She could imagine his rage and resentment running deeper than the burn marks that never left his body.

 _That_ , for Elain, was the real terror here. Not Azriel himself.

“Wait,” she said. “Stop.”

But Azriel paid her no mind.

Instead he stalked towards his prey, rows and rows of dagger-like teeth bared.

“Fuck this,” the scarred warrior spat.

The Illyrians moved in tandem, rushing forward to thrust their blades into Azriel’s outstretched neck. A single beat of his massive wing—the one that wasn’t surrounding Elain—slammed them onto their backs, their swords tossed out of reach.

Azriel lunged with quiet grace, despite his size and breadth. Though every footfall reverberated through the earth so that Elain could feel the ground beneath her quiver.

One blink and Azriel had pinned the Illyrians beneath a massive claw. They squirmed like rodents, each movement making Azriel press deeper, drawing blood.

“Abomination!” they cried.

Azriel snapped his horned head to the side, the word no doubt triggering some profane memory. One more move, and he would shred them like paper. Elain understood that now. And while she too had blood on her hands, having committed an abhorrent act of violence to save her sister, she couldn’t bear witnessing another.

She just couldn’t.

Later, she would have time to reflect on what she did next—what drove her to step in front of that lethal, gaping maw. To press her head against his war-drum beating heart and beg him, _beg_ him, to let them go.

“Azriel,” she said, trying to calm him, soothe him. “Azriel...”

The barest twitch of his nostrils was the only sign that he acknowledged her. Elain breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t too far gone.

“Listen to me,” she told him. “You need to let them go.”

His answering growl was a mixture of incredulity and outright refusal. She wasn’t naive as to why. The Illyrians before them knew nothing of pity or compassion. Should Azriel let them go, they could return to exact their vengeance tenfold.

Rhysand himself had once told her that Illyrians had been battle-bred to value their warped sense of honor over their own lives. No matter how many generations had passed or how many high lords cracked the whip, their pride was a matter of course.

“ _So if you ever piss off an Illyrian_ ,” Cassian had half-joked. “ _Make sure you finish the job._ ”

“You are not like them,” Elain pleaded. “But if you let your hate get the better of you, you _will_ be.”

He leveled the full force of that vicious glare upon her. She had never before borne the brunt of it and congratulated herself on keeping her spine straight. As one of the most powerful Illyrians in history, Azriel did not brook defiance well. Not even from his own family—and she was barely even that.

 _You do not bow_...she remembered her sister’s mate saying.

So Elain wouldn’t either. Not even to him.

Darkness cloaked them both. It wasn’t a gentle darkness either. Its center had a finality to it, like a cell or a pit from which there would be no reprieve or no return. Around her, the shadows sang a different song, a forlorn dirge that spoke of the deepest pain and the most aching despair.

When the darkness cleared, Elain fell to her knees.

They were in a different part of the forest now. The Illyrians were long gone.

Azriel could not look at her. The savagery, the fierceness, that cold, bloodless rage...all of it still roiled beneath the surface. His wings flapped in agitation as he snapped his jaws at nothing, as though he were still imagining sinking them into the flesh of those hapless brutes.

Elain gathered herself, approaching him with caution.

She reached out a hand, but Azriel did not want to meet it. He was at war with himself, she realized. He was at war with his own worst enemy.

There were no words she could offer that would give him any measure of comfort. He had fought against his instincts, his better judgment, to cede to her wishes. Doubt clouded his heavy brows like thunder. Doubt that she had seeded. Here he was, one of the deadliest weapons in the world, and Elain had refused to wield him as she did Truth-Teller.

Even if it was at the risk of her own safety. That must have been unfathomable to him.

But she could not help thinking of the kind soul who had spent long afternoons with her in the garden, even when he didn’t have to. The kind soul that indulged all her experiments in the kitchen, even when they sometimes barely passed for food. The kind soul who had forgiven her transgressions even when they cost him his own body.

Could he not see that his kindness was its own remarkable strength?

“You are not a weapon,” she said finally. “And mercy is not a weakness.”

Azriel stood as still as stone.

For a moment, Elain thought she saw something gutter out in that terrible, beautiful countenance of his. As though she her words had broken something inside him. Something that he had been clinging to for a long, long time.

And as he turned his back on her, she felt a rift grow between them like a wound.

 


End file.
